


In the Land of Gods and Monsters

by fleurofthecourt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode: s09e13 The Purge, Fluff and Angst, M/M, POV Second Person, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 08:23:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1219318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurofthecourt/pseuds/fleurofthecourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his fight with Sam, Dean finds that some coping mechanisms are better than others (otherwise known as Cas and Dean have sex because Dean doesn't know how to maturely deal with his emotions).</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Land of Gods and Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Lana Del Rey's _Gods and Monsters_. 
> 
> There are references to 'I'm No Angel' and April/the reaper in this fic. If you find that triggering or upsetting, please do not read this.

The bottle is slick against your hand, cool condensation still dripping down its sides. You don’t need this. God knows you don’t. You passed a healthy amount of alcohol intake long, long ago. 

But Sammy is usually the one pointing that out, and Sam, well, that’s the whole point isn’t it? You don’t want to think about Sam. 

Screw Sam. 

You reach lazily for your phone, and you’re not really sure what you’re doing with it. But the next thing you know, you’ve got Cas on the line. Cas who isn’t responding to your incoherent drunken ramblings, well, at all really. He simply asks if you’re alright, finds your insistence that of course you are doubtful, and hangs up. 

And isn’t that peachy? Of course the guy simply can’t be bothered by being drunk dialed. 

Screw him too. 

You know he’s off somewhere trying to unjam Heaven’s gates anyway, since you never exactly told him it wasn’t possible. Which is just another thing you don’t want to think about. 

It’s another symptom of your slow, quiet venom, this well intentioned lying to protect, one that you let percolate in the blood of the one’s you care for. 

You drain the bottle and crush the glass between your fingers squeezing at it until your hand bleeds. The shards press into your palm and fingertips, and it’s a tangible pain, the kind you know what to do with, the kind you know how to feel. 

Sam’s words cut too deep, like tiny knives digging at your heart, and you can’t bear it. 

You’re starting to think you’re more alone now than you would be if Sam had died all those months ago. You don’t want to think that, but you do. 

You stare at the red blossoming over your skin and think maybe you should do something to stop it. 

You don’t. 

At some point, you pass out on the table, hardly noticing that blood and glass are now sticking to your cheek. It’s irrelevant anyway. You were seeking oblivion, and you found it. 

It’s interrupted, though, by a rough voice grating against your ear. A palm cups your cheek and suddenly your hand doesn’t hurt anymore. “Dean?” 

“Cas?” Concerned blue eyes look at you and a squint turns into a frown. You’re being dragged out of the kitchen and pushed onto your bed. You try arguing with him, telling him you don’t need him to do this because you’re fine. But you both know you’re not. He wouldn’t be there if you were. 

His duty done, though, he turns to leave -- definitely from your bed, probably your room, and maybe the bunker. 

You don’t want him to go.

You find your hand gripping the sleeve of his overcoat and tugging him back. 

You know he doesn’t need to sleep, but you don’t care. Right now he needs to be your goddamn security blanket, protecting you from, well, you. 

You don’t want to think this either, but the last thing you want right now is to be alone. 

You don’t say a word, you simply hope that he’ll understand and stay. He does. 

XXX 

You wake to a bed-tousled mess of dark hair, and you sort of vaguely recall how it got to be there. 

You wish he were sleeping, but he probably never was, so there's no opportunity to process this. Cas is just there, in your bed, looking at you with a sad mix of pity and concern, no doubt about to make you spill about the night before. 

Letting him play Dr. Phil would undoubtedly prevent an awkward discussion about how you kinda just slept with him. But you don’t want to open up. Not to him. Not to anyone. 

Keeping your wounds to yourself is a ritual so deeply ingrained that even when you know they’re only going to fester into something much worse, you simply let them. You don’t need to seek help when there’s that thin sliver of a chance they’ll mend or dissipate on their own. 

Cas’ pointed expression suggests that he doesn’t agree. You wince under it, knowing that he's getting better at this, offering empathy and perspective. You even think it could help. But you won’t take it. Nothing in you will give enough to seek his assurances, not when you have to lay yourself out so openly to get them. 

He leans into the bed-frame and waits for you to bare your soul, not saying a word. Which is terrible because you can’t argue with silence. 

So to stop his unspoken inquisition -- about the bed, the broken bottle, and your brother -- you do something incredibly rash. You rest your hands on his shoulders, lean forward, and kiss him. 

Initially, he pulls back in surprise, hesitant and confused, _why_ written across every inch of his face. 

You don't have an answer, at least, not one you're willing to share. You shrug _why not?_

Why not go further, you wonder? Why only take an inch when you can take a mile? You pull off your shirt and toss it on the floor. 

His eyes pinch in bewilderment for a minute before he takes the hint. He discards his overcoat before gripping your arms and pinning them at your side. His pelvis arches over yours and his knees start to dig into your thighs as he straddles you. 

He stops and looks you in the eye, still unsure. This is not what he thought you wanted or needed. 

Five minutes ago, you probably would have agreed. But you’re fairly certain you’ve since lost whatever control you had over your higher faculties and, at this point, your lower ones. 

So now you place your hands on the back of his head, thread your fingers through his hair, and whisper _please._

He firmly presses his hands on the top of your chest and drags them down the plane of it until they meet with your boxers. Then slowly, agonizingly slowly, he tugs at the elastic and pulls them down your legs.

He looks at you again, his brow slightly furrowed, and gives you a wry grin before letting his hands settle warmly on the inside of your thighs and turning his attention fully downwards. You swallow hard as one thought completely consumes all others: you’re about to have sex with Cas. 

You’re not sure this is how you wanted it, but you’re pretty sure the window to stop him has closed. The train has long since left the station. 

Your breathing slows and before you know it his lips and tongue are tracing over the painfully sensitive skin of your groin. You sink into the memory foam and wrap your fists around the material of your covers. As he begins to taste you, your breathing speeds back up, and then some, to match that of his friction. You’re panting and your eyelids begin to flutter in shock as much as pleasure. 

An angel...a guy... _Cas_ has never done this to you before. 

Your limbs give, sated, and in release you wonder what component made it so... rattling? So... remarkable? You can’t put your finger on it. But you know you want more. You don’t fully remember how you got here but believe that you’ve found a better oblivion -- an oblivion more light than dark. 

You realize that you could let him become a different kind of pain, a sweeter alcohol, a smoother shard of glass. 

“April did that to me,” Cas says, startling you, his eyes rounding with the thoughtful tilt of his head. “I found the sensation pleasant.” 

Your hand runs harshly down the side of your face as you realize you can’t do this, not to Cas. 

Sex with barely-not-a-virgin Cas can’t be your fix for dealing with your emotional ineptitude. You care about him too much, and you need him too much. It would undo you, and you know it. 

“Come here,” you say, tugging him forward and cradling his head against your neck. You kiss the top of his head and pull him into you. 

Even though it’s more for you than him, you run your hands up and down his arms in slow soothing strokes for several long minutes. He lets you, unquestioningly. 

You know what you need to do, that which you are so opposed to doing. 

So before you can think better of it, you explain in a quick, quiet rush, “Last night, Sam...Sam told me I saved his ass because I was afraid of being alone.” 

“Oh,” Cas says. He starts to run his hands down your arms, clearly having picked up on its use. After a moment’s contemplation, he says, “Dean, Sam is wrong.” 

You look up at him, eyes raised doubtfully, certain _he’s_ the one that’s wrong, but finding yourself willing to hear him out. 

“It’s not that simple,” Cas continues. “It is certainly true that you would go to great lengths, and upset the balance of the universe in the process, to protect and save his ass... you have time and time again, but that itself is the reason behind it. You protect Sam over and over again because you think that is your sole purpose, Dean. You can’t let go of him because if Sam is not here to protect... you feel you have no purpose, that somehow you have failed.” 

He cups your head in his hands and looks you straight in the eye, “You too are wrong.” 

He kisses you this time, his lips gently hooking into yours. He rests his temple and nose against your own, the soft, warm puff of his breath breezing across your cheekbone before he pulls back. “Even if you weren’t, it is okay to fail. I saw that when I was human. Many others have. You find new purpose. You see that there is more to life than, in my case, neverending strategies for righting my own wrongs. For you, there is more than just saving people, particularly Sam.” 

“So what are you saying? We’re going to fail anyway so we should just give up?” You ask with a scoff. 

“Not at all, Dean,” Cas says, “I’m saying keep going, keep doing what you do, but know it’s not the only thing. We’ve both always been soldiers, but we do not have to be.” 

“We could be lovers not fighters?” You quip before completely blanching as you remember that you’re talking to Cas. 

Cas smiles as he guides your hand to his fly. “I would like that.” 

You decide that in the here and now, so would you.


End file.
